


Dote Upon the Exchange II

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [45]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Clothing, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6054271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘No slurs on my jumper, please.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dote Upon the Exchange II

Paul stares at him for a moment and, in the space it takes for him to catch up, Foyle takes his hand and pulls him gently to his feet. Paul goes with the tug, watching Foyle watch him. If this is a game, then he’s prepared to play. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I wore something a little nicer?’ It is, after all, only a plain wool jumper of a color somewhere between yellow and beige, with a v-neck just low enough to allow for the knot of a tie.

‘No slurs on my jumper, please.’ Foyle runs his hand down Paul’s arm, his fingers a light, teasing pressure. 

‘Wouldn’t think of it, sir,’ Paul says, earning himself a mock-stern look. 

Foyle tugs at the sleeve, pulling the wool more evenly over the cuff of Paul’s shirt and smoothes his palm up Paul’s arm, pausing at his shoulder, then sliding his hand forward so the tips of his fingers touch Paul’s throat. Paul shivers involuntarily and yawns, exhaustion and arousal mixing into what feels like a rush of cold through his body.

This confusion of sensation at the end of a long day is a feeling Paul’s become used to over the years; it stuns him a little that it still happens. It can be from something as simple as Foyle touching his hand to get his attention. He doesn’t remember it happening with anyone else; then again, he doesn’t remember anyone else paying the kind of attention to his body that Foyle has. He hadn’t even paid this close attention to himself as a boy when sex had first seemed fascinating and desirable. 

He had thought it was a fluke at first -- something to do with the novelty of their relationship that would wear off as time went by, but then he realised it was just the extension of how Foyle looked at _everything._ It was simply that Paul hadn’t considered how that careful attention was directed towards _him._ Once he realised, he had a difficult two weeks where catching Foyle’s eye at the wrong moment had left him with a tingling sensation on the back of his neck and in desperate need of something to do with his hands to distract himself.

Two years on, now, he knows it isn’t going to go away and he doesn’t want it to. 

Foyle shakes his head, pursing his lips. ‘Sorry, silly of me -- shouldn’t keep you standing here like this. Come on--’ He takes a step back, pushing Paul ahead of him towards the door.

Protesting that he isn’t tired would be futile so Paul lets himself be shepherded through the hall and up the stairs. Once in the bedroom, though, he stops, turns back, waiting for Foyle to catch up from turning off the last light downstairs. 

Foyle pulls the door almost shut behind him -- Tweed will throw a fit if they close it against her -- and raises an eyebrow at him: ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘I thought you might like to reclaim your property.’ Paul touches the hem of the jumper, adding, ‘It _is_ yours after all.’

‘So it is.’ Foyle crosses the room to him and slips his hands under the wool, his palms pressing warm against Paul’s ribs. 

Paul drops his own hands onto Foyle’s shoulders, unknotting his tie and sliding it free of his collar. He drops the tie over the nearby chair and flicks open the first few buttons of Foyle’s shirt. ‘So are you going to steal one of _my_ jumpers next time?’ he suggests, slipping his thumb along the line of Foyle’s collarbone. ‘Or my shirt?’

Foyle snorts but also arches his neck slightly, tilting his head to the side and giving Paul’s hand room. ‘As if it would fit me.’ He pushes the jumper up in accordion folds over Paul’s chest. Paul shrugs his shoulders, ready to let the wool be pulled over his head but Foyle pauses. His hands almost span Paul’s breastbone, his palms warm over the rise of muscle. ‘I was thinking--’ Foyle’s voice is soft and Paul can see color on his cheeks. He pauses, clears his throat, and goes on, ‘I was thinking that if you wore it for long enough -- it would smell more like you than me.’ 

Paul swallows; there’s a roll of heat through his belly, cutting sharp through the exhaustion. ‘It did smell like you.’ 

Foyle cocks his head. ‘Yes?’

Paul nods, feeling himself flushing. ‘Your soap.’ 

And also very slightly of the inside of the wardrobe -- wood and dust -- but stronger than that was a combination of the shaving soap they share -- a sharp chemical smell with an overlayer of cheap sandalwood -- mixed with a thicker, sweeter tang that he recognizes from their sheets, his own skin, hands, mouth. He kept catching whiffs of it throughout the day at odd moments, never strongly enough to distract him fully, but enough to make him feel pleasurably uneasy, a little prickly, enough to make him want to look up and find Foyle. He didn’t, of course, but he wanted to.

The jumper is an uncomfortable bulk between them so Paul ducks out of it, tossing it over the back of the chair on top of Foyle’s tie. Foyle leans forward as if to kiss him but yawns sharply and has to draw back, looking apologetic, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. Paul chuckles and presses his palm over the open placket of Foyle’s shirt. ‘Perhaps another time? When we’re both awake.’

‘Mm--’ Foyle stifles another yawn and starts thumbing open Paul’s shirt buttons. ‘Remind me not to throw the jumper in with the washing tomorrow.’

‘No?’ From his angle, all Paul can see is Foyle’s cheek and shoulder and the corner of a smile.

‘I want to find out if you wore it for long enough.’


End file.
